


watching stars collide

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Bunker Fic, Fallen Castiel, Fight Sex, Gym Sex, M/M, Oh yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel used to be able to heal with a press of fingers. He could be in Oregon one second and the valleys of the Himalayas the next. He could destroy demons with the touch of a palm, revive a baby bird fallen from its nest, map and chase constellations and shape the fabric of reality. </p>
<p>But now Castiel is Cas. Human. And it's fucking awful (for the most part).</p>
            </blockquote>





	watching stars collide

**Author's Note:**

> originally published on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com).
> 
> enjoy!

Castiel used to be able to heal with a press of fingers. He could be in Oregon one second and the valleys of the Himalayas the next. He could destroy demons with the touch of a palm, revive a baby bird fallen from its nest, map and chase constellations and shape the fabric of reality.

That all seems very long ago now.

Because _now_ Castiel is Cas. Human. He eats and drinks and shits and pisses and it's fucking awful. Sometimes his back aches for no reason. Sometimes his hair just _won't lie flat_. Sometimes he dreams of iniquity and wakes up impossibly hard and wanting.

Once, Dean said that Cas was a miserable fucker who needed to get a grip, because everyone has fucking problems, dude. Once, Dean told him that he was useless, unwanted, because what good is he if he can't even heal Sammy? Once, Dean cried and gripped Cas's unfamiliar clothing and whispered quietly that he'd missed him, that he was scared for his brother and sorry sorry _sorry_ that Cas was hurting too.

Dean says a lot of things.

But Sam is getting better, slowly and uncertainly, without Cas's help at all. He's strong, resilient, insistent that he'll be fine. Though sometimes Cas thinks that when Sam promises he's okay, he's actually lying.

He's getting better at that, Castiel. Reading human expressions, analysing their emotions. It seems to come easier to him in this limited human form, but he doesn't know if it's a new power he especially wants. Dean's expressions hurt, whether aimed at Cas or caught unawares at times when he thinks no one can see him. Cas sees. And it aches.

They don't hunt for a while. They regroup at the bunker. It took Cas three weeks, two bus journeys, eight homeless camps, 31.8 miles of walking, stealing from seventeen various vending machines, hitch-hiking on four different Interstates and the kindness of six strangers to find the Winchesters again.

His first night at the bunker had been noisy. Sam was coughing, groaning, dying. Dean was yelling, at the whole world. He shouted at Cas, demanded answers, explanations, a _why_ and a _how_ and a _what the fuck do we do now_? The answers had been truthful; Cas saw no reason to lie anymore.

Then he'd slept, for two and a half days, and when he awoke again, there was soup and bread on the table and Sam was up and Dean was smiling and Cas was rested. It was quiet.

It's been quiet since. They aren't hunting, which takes away a neutral topic of conversation and leaves the field wide open for the unsafe, unspoken bursts of anger and pain and worry and betrayal. The sort of thing that Cas feels bubbling inside his stomach sometimes, like poison eating away at him, and he has to swallow hard to keep it all from spilling out.

He goes to the gym.

It's in the bunker, of course. Dean discovered it one day when looking for something (anything) that might help his brother. He didn't get what he needed, but he did find a room full of old-fashioned exercise equipment, soft mats, two mirrored walls, pull-up bars and weights and florescent strip lighting on the ceiling.

But Dean isn't one for exercising. When Cas suggested that maybe taking up the activity would help remove that little bit of pudge forming on Dean's stomach, he was told that running after the bad guy was exercise enough, thankyouverymuch, and if Cas wanted to get fit so damn bad why didn't he run down the road while Dean chased him in the Impala and then we'd see who needed exercise.

Cas figured he'd said something wrong and skulked away. To the gym, because he _likes_ the gym. It's where he is now, reclined backwards with biceps straining as he heaves an 80lb bar up over him. He's still strong, in mind and body, but he likes to work out because it gives him something to focus on. Cas needs focus, because occasionally the knowledge of what he used to be, and what he did, and what he became, is a little overwhelming.

Today he's frustrated. Quite often he finds himself frustrated. At himself, mainly, but also frequently at Dean. Sometimes he doesn't even really know why. It's like a pull in his gut, a hot burn in his fingertips, a sharp pain behind his brow. Dean is infuriating for so many reasons, Cas struggles to pinpoint just one.

There are footsteps in the corridor outside and Cas knows who it will be before Dean's voice says, "Oi, Harold Sakata," from the doorway.

Scowling, Cas doesn't reply. Dean seems to take this as a cue to enter anyway. He looms into Cas's vision, upside down. His hands grasp the bar beside Cas's own clenched fingers, and he helps him ease it into place.

Cas sits up, towels at his sweaty neck, plucks his sticky t-shirt from his chest before letting it ping back into position. "What do you want, Dean?"

"Doing a risotto for dinner tonight. Interested?"

Dean's eyes track him across the room as Cas scoffs, picks up his bottle of water, swallows three large mouthfuls with his head tipped back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You came all the way down here just to ask me about dinner?"

It's only then that Cas really notices the tension in Dean's shoulders, the unease with which he holds himself as he stands there half-avoiding Cas's stare. The awkward jarring movement that should be an easy shrug.

"Can't you just be fucking civil for once?" Dean accuses, and Cas thinks that's a bit rich when just last night Dean stormed off to his room halfway through a Star Wars film with a low muttered curse.

But he's skirting around something now, Cas can tell. What Cas can't do is be bothered to try and wheedle it out of him. If Dean wants to say something to him, he can say it.

So Cas reverts to _default setting: obnoxious_ and ignores the other man in the room, peels off his damp t-shirt instead of engaging in conversation because it's less dangerous. Or at least, that's what he thinks until he realises _Dean_ is staring at _him_ now. Or, more specifically, his naked torso. Probably the old sweatpants slung low on his hips, too.

Cas isn't stupid, nor blind. He knows what lust looks like, feels like. He knows that there is—has _always_ been— _something_ between himself and Dean. He would not have fallen so disgracefully for anyone else. Would not have died for anyone else. Would not have plucked any other soul from the stinking depths of Hell.

Love is a peculiar word that doesn't fit well in Cas's mouth, but he wonders if that is indeed what the _something_ is.

"You're such a bastard," Dean snaps now, and he looks so very tired. "You walk around this place all puppy-dog sad and woe is me, when all I'm tryna do is help you, Cas."

Cas barks out an unamused laugh. He drops his water bottle, let's the towel fall from around his shoulders. He marches over to Dean, satisfied when he recoils slightly, and replies, "And how, exactly, are you supposed to help me when you're part of the reason why I feel so.. so…"

They're inches apart now and Cas judges there to be three possible outcomes here. Number one, they drop this whole thing and go back to normal; number two: one of them does something stupid and they can't ever talk to each other again; or number three: one of them does something stupid that turns out to be not so stupid.

If Cas was a gambling man (he isn't, because Dean has refused to allow him access to any addictive behaviours) he would place a bet on number two, stemming logic from past experience.

"Feel so what, Cas?" Dean's voice is practically a growl. His pupils are blown. Cas feels a surge of something in the bottom of his rib cage. He hates this; that niggling ache and desperate longing. Hates that it is this man standing in front of him, this broken man with a good heart and an even better brain, that he can't seem to stop thinking about.

They're both breathing slightly louder than normal, and Cas's fingers itch to cling to Dean's plaid overshirt. To push him away, to pull him close. He doesn't know.

"Cas, you feel like what?" Asking again seems pretty redundant, because Cas has no more of an answer this time than he did the last.

"Fucking like _this_ ," he grits out, and who could say who moved first, but suddenly Cas's fist is connecting with Dean's jaw and Dean is swinging up an arm reflexively and they're _fighting_.

Cas may not have his angelic powers, but he's sharp on his feet and quick. Dean has been trained for this since the age of four. They are both equally matched.

Forearms block incoming punches and they push and shove and grapple at each other until they're panting and Cas is sweaty again and then he sees the glint in Dean's eye and the bastard smirks. He's enjoying this. And when they spar and kick and Dean nearly gets Cas pinned, Cas realises that he's enjoying this too.

Dean's hands scrabble at Cas's shoulders as his knee aims for his balls, but Cas blocks it with his own leg so easily it might as well be laughable. He hooks his foot around Dean's calf, pulls it out from under him, and brings him down to the crash mat so fast they both land haphazardly with an _oomph_.

They roll around on the mat, grappling and grunting and Cas can feel the hard line of Dean's erection against his thigh and shivers. With a rush of renewed determination, he successfully manages to pin Dean to the floor, straddles his back, grabs hold of his arms—but Dean is prepared, bucks Cas off and darts to his feet. A little winded, Cas springs up too.

Circling each other like animal and prey, Cas bites out, "What do you want, Dean? What do you fucking well want?"

But he doesn't get an answer. Instead, Dean lunges forwards, punches him, tries to do the same leg trick as was just used on him. "I want you to shut up, Cas," he spits out in the tangle of limbs, but his eyes are shining with energy.

Cas laughs breathlessly, catches Dean's wrist and twists his arm up behind his back. Using the resulting yelp to his advantage, Cas shoves Dean face first against the mirrored wall, comes up behind him.

"Is that what you want?" he breathes, right in Dean's ear. "Is it _really_?"

Dean shudders and Cas feels it in every fibre of his being. He pushes forward, rolls his hips, his thinly-covered hard on pressing against Dean's ass.

His head twisted the side, one cheek against the mirrored wall, Dean grates out a, "Fuck you, Cas."

"If you want," he smirks, and Dean actually groans aloud.

Feeling bold, Cas lightly trails his lips along the back of Dean's sweaty neck, up to the bolt of his jaw. He isn't kissing him, not really, but it's intense and too soft to be satisfying and he has to stifle a moan.

And then Dean spins in his arms, and for a second Cas thinks they're going to start fighting again and he hopes not because Dean is already bruised and Cas can feel warm and sticky blood trickling from his eyebrow, but then his mouth is covered by Dean's and they're kissing hard and fast and rough.

Dean's hands, warm and dry but calloused, come up to frame Cas's face, to keep him in place. When Cas's arms wrap around his waist Dean makes this soft little noise in the back of his throat that Cas already wants to hear again.

And this is it, the precarious line between option two and three. He could stop this now, right now, because his head is telling him that this could only end in trouble. But then Dean's tongue presses forward, tickles Cas's own, and all Cas can think is that he _needs_ this right fucking now and damn the consequences.

But this is Dean, and Dean is too important to lose. His is Cas's anchor, his touchstone, his true north. And Cas would be lost without him. So he pulls back just enough to free his lips, to murmur "Are you sure?" before his mouth is plundered again and Dean grips his hips hard enough to promise that he is.

It's good, so fucking good, that Cas could keep this up all day. But then Dean thrusts forwards minutely, and even through the layers of sweatpants and denim it's enough to make him gasp. With trembling fingers he pushes off Dean's shirt, rips the undershirt over his head.

"Oh, God," he groans, palms plastered to Dean's arms as he pulls them chest to chest, because this is a sort of pleasure he never felt anywhere, certainly not in Heaven, and humans are so good and solid and Dean is so beautiful that Cas can see, now, why his Father favoured them.

Him. Favoured _him_ , for he is human now, too.

The pressure of Dean's lips eases slightly, his brow crinkling. "Stop thinking so hard," he chides, hands sliding up and down Cas's slick torso.

"You are—," Cas tries, but he can't even begin to turn the rush of fizzing pleasure inside him into coherent words. "This is—this is everything I…"

But Dean silences him with a touch of lips lighter than anything else so far as he desperately whispers, "I know, fuck, I _know_ ," into Cas's skin.

He flips them so that Cas is the one pressed to the wall, and Cas can't bring himself to be indignant when it feels like his whole body is alive with pleasure. He feels so much now, every hair that stands on end and every nip of Dean's lips and every finger as it smoothes over his flushed skin.

Dean murmurs things into his hair, into the crook of his neck, into his mouth. He says "I'm gonna make this so good, Cas" and "you're so freaking hot" and "stop hiding from me, man" and Cas doesn't know what to make of all this so he settles for groaning loudly and wrapping his legs around Dean's waist. Tightly, so he won't fall.

The mirror is icy cold against his back, but Dean is a hard hot line pressed to his front and it's delicious.

"I got you," Dean mutters, kissing him hot and deep and wet, and then he's got one finger plucking at the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, and one hand slipping inside, and Cas squirms until Dean gets the message and pulls them down completely. He kicks out of his own jeans and then it's cock to cock and Cas legitimately thinks he might die and that this is the end of the world.

Dean takes them both in his hand, jerks them rough and fast, and it's pleasure to the point of pain but Cas craves it, needs it, wants it forever and ever.

"Dean, I'm…" he gasps when he can feel that coil of ecstasy ready to snap and burst.

"Me too, Cas," Dean breathes in response, kisses him again, twists his wrist into a new rhythm that sends Cas spiralling down into orgasm, spilling hot over Dean's hand, their dicks, crashing over the edge into such intense pleasure he feels like he might black out. Every limb is shaking, quivering, and he clings to Dean like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.

"Holy shit," Dean murmurs, and then he comes himself with a low groan, his forehead falling to Cas's shoulder.

Afterwards, they breathe. They don't move. They're still leaning on each other heavily, and Dean quietly sucks a hickey onto Cas's neck.

"That was…" he murmurs, shaking his head slightly.

"Yeah," Cas agrees.

And it's not going to be easy, because nothing they do ever is. But Cas thinks that perhaps, maybe, this is love. And he thinks that Sam will be okay. And he thinks that maybe Dean's expressions will be different now, and they won't hurt so much.

Cas still feels anger and pain and worry and betrayal, they linger, woven into his bones, but now they're softened slightly. By hope.


End file.
